An Artist's Eye (Dica Series Book 5)

by Clive S. Johnson

  8 Like a Sheep Tick

  Despite the relatively low position of her seat, Prescinda still recognised the route Nephril took. After they’d dropped down from the Scarra through the northern Balconies, they’d carried on towards the Old Wall, but had soon turned off. They came onto a steep uphill street she was sure took them to the Royal College.

  So far so good, she thought.

  They turned again at its high junction onto another recognisable road, but one no longer strewn with debris. Clearly the route had become more frequented since her last time this way.

  Sure enough, before long the college’s green-streaked dome jutted above the terraced properties on their left. Prescinda looked out for the gap that marked the campus, but when it drew into sight she began to smell a hint of something vaguely familiar.

  Even when it had grown a little stronger, as Nephril brought them through the college gate, she still couldn’t place it. She would have made mention had her mind not now acknowledged what her eyes had plainly been keen to deny.

  The vast expanse of the college’s flagged terrace was awash with paraphernalia. Stacks of crates and sacks rose within a sea of snaking leather hoses, with tents and canopies, scaffolding and metal towers liberally scattered about. Although it all grew quickly denser and higher as it mounded towards the college entrance, what she saw rising hugely from its centre struck ice into her veins.

  Slowly billowing and rippling against a slight breeze, like a gigantic, half-satiated sheep tick, an enormous, shiny, pale blue sack rose from it all. Ropes and tethers variously hung from it or were taut to the ground. Prescinda tried to take it all in but failed, only vaguely hearing Nephril utter, “Blast their haste,” but she never noticed his own.

  She would no doubt have remained stunned had a familiar face not leapt down from a naphtha-lorry now beside them - hurriedly chosen by Nephril as a suitable screen behind which to hide the sight. Even then, the imponderable floating apparition still showed its undulating scalp above the lorry’s load of uncorked flasks.

  “Hello, Prescinda,” Falmeard said, only to be taken aback by the look on her face.

  “What...” she managed, Falmeard following her stare.

  “Oh, the balloon. Of course, first time you’ll have seen it.”

  “Balloo...” She looked imploringly at him, forlorn and lost, and so missed Nephril’s shake of his head at Falmeard.

  “I did not expect them to have got so far, Prescinda, mine dear,” Nephril tried to sooth, by which time Falmeard had opened her door.

  Strange objects now drifted past her unfocused sight as Nephril and Falmeard helped her to a rather makeshift wooden structure. It had windows and a door through which they carefully guided her.

  Once inside, Nephril coaxed, “Sit thyself down here, Prescinda. A stiff drink might be in order,” he then directed at Falmeard, who only looked back uncertainly.

  “I’ll go see if I can find one,” he finally said.

  “What in Leiyatel’s name is that thing?”

  “Err ... well, as Falmeard has already said, or as he has lent us from his own time, ‘tis a balloon.” He seemed to take great pleasure in using this new word. “And to answer thy next question, it be how we obtain our surer view of the mirage.”

  Prescinda scoffed, “You mean, you expect me to sit on top of that thing? You’ve got to be joking. I’m not going up there for all the...”

  Nephril’s supressed laughter stopped her. “What? What have I said? What’re you trying not to laugh at, you old goat?” and she slapped his knees.

  And then he did laugh, tears soon rolling down his cheeks, laughed with such infection they were both giggling and spluttering when Falmeard finally came back. Drink in hand, he stared, mouth hanging slack.

  Nephril had seated her away from any window, but she soon wanted to see the sight again. He stood a little behind her as she once more gazed at the unfathomable mound and its now gently swaying sack. A rope flicked out from its side and steadied it.

  “Balloon,” she rolled around her mouth, savouring the quirky feel it had but failing to match it with what she saw. “Can we have a closer look?”

  “Perhaps not at the moment, but soon. The engers are currently a little busy filling it to want us getting in their way. We would need helmets anyway, which I doubt they have spare.”

  “Helmets?”

  “For the obnoxious air. What Falmeard brought here yesterday.” Nephril looked across at the rear of the naphtha-lorry, all that could be seen from here, at the empty flasks patiently awaiting their return to Yuhlm.

  “Ammonia,” Falmeard called from where he sat, sipping the drink he’d brought her. “Well ... spirit of longhorn, or whatever it is Nephril prefers to call it. Nasty stuff.”

  “Of course,” Prescinda said. “That smell. I knew I’d come across it before.”

  Falmeard joined them at the window, passing her the remains of the drink.

  “A somewhat more palatable spirit,” he grinned as she took a sip.

  Falmeard obviously knew quite a bit about the balloon and seemed keen to explain. Much of what he said went over her head, but she got the general gist. Clearly, the huge sack - the balloon - was meant to rise through the air.

  “Like the bubbles that float to the top of a pint of ale,” he said, “although this doesn’t quite go as fast, nor all the way to the top.” He dipped his head to look through the window at the clear blue sky.

  When Prescinda asked how on Earth they were supposed to rise with it, Falmeard told her about a basket suspended below. “It’s like a big hamper. Everything has to be as light as possible you see, because the ammonia isn’t a great deal lighter than the air about it.”

  A cloud passed across Prescinda’s face. “How high do we have to go?”

  The two men looked at each other behind her back.

  “It’s pretty safe. We only have to...”

  “How high?” and she turned and stared hard at Falmeard.

  Nephril placed a hand on hers, the one holding the drink. “Only a little higher than the Star Tower.”

  “WHAT!”

  Nephril immediately took the drink from her.

  “I can’t do that. It’s far too high. In a building, yes, I’m fine there, now, but not...” She spun around and stared out at the malevolent sheep tick and stiffened.

  When she turned back, she grabbed Falmeard by the arms and whispered, “Do you really have a fear of heights too? Do you, Falmeard? Was Nephril telling me the truth?”

  He glanced at Nephril, but she shook him back.

  “Well?”

  Falmeard told her how, yes, he too hated heights, but that he’d fought the fear with Nephril’s help, and had been a short way up. “It’s strange, Prescinda, but hanging there with nothing beneath your feet seems to make it easier. I don’t know why. Maybe it’s because you aren’t connected to the ground. There’s nothing to relate the height to you see.”

  Her eyes flicked back and forth between his, her mind keen to believe. Through her panic, she saw an honesty there, a look lacking guile, and by it found some reassurance.

  Nephril clearly saw her hands slacken their grip on Falmeard, and gently prised one away, into which he returned her drink. She glanced at it, then at Nephril’s smiling face before staring back at the drink. In one swift movement, she threw it down her throat.

  A shiver and a cough, neck muscles rising proud, she turned to Nephril, shook her hair away from her face and gave him a smile. “I’m sorry, Nephril. Again, I seem to have unfairly doubted you.”

  He slowly patted her arm a few times, a simple forgiving act.

  “I see now why you wanted Falmeard to explain. It makes sense.” She carefully placed the glass on a workbench by the window, paused, lifted her head to the now fuller balloon, and in a small voice asked, “When do we have to do it?”

  Nephril put an arm about her shoulders, hugged her and quietly said, “Within the hour, mine dear. Within the hour. Thou see, the spiri
ts of hartshorn last only so long, and the engers are already well on.”

  She remembered something he’d said earlier and firmed her jaw. “Blast their haste, eh, Nephril? Blast their damned haste.”

  9 A Lifting of the Spirits

  “This, mine dear, is Chiffenger Awlshank,” Nephril said as he introduced a lean and lanky man of about fifty, his short-cropped hair almost brushing the cabin’s low ceiling, his eyes bulging as though forever surprised. “He wilt be in charge of the ascent today.”

  The chiffenger nodded curtly, and smartly took her offered hand. “Pleasure, ma’am,” he almost snapped as he briefly shook it then turned to Nephril. “Just the three of thee, then?”

  Nephril nodded, leaving the Chiffenger carefully and astutely appraising Prescinda. She now understood how the heifers and bullocks must feel at market.

  “He be adjudging thy weight,” Nephril assured her, and then turned to Awlshank. “Not a problem I hope, Chiffenger?”

  “No, m’lord. Neither t’lift nor t’coat.”

  “Coat?” Prescinda asked.

  “It’s going to be a bit cooler up there, Prescinda,” Falmeard said as he came beside her, “so we’ve got you a warm coat, and don’t go telling me it’s not in your colour.” He grinned.

  Awlshank snapped his fingers and a young enger came into the room, nodded curtly to them all and held out a long woollen item.

  “I don’t have to put it on now do I? It looks a bit warm.”

  Nephril asked her only to try it for size, saying she should carry it with her for later. He then asked Awlshank if all seemed set fair.

  “A very slight breeze, m’lord. Nothing to worry about. In fact, it’s pretty much perfect.”

  The room went silent, each face expectantly upon Prescinda. She swallowed, at which Falmeard took her hand and squeezed it lightly.

  “Come on then. Try it on,” he said, and so she did.

  “Black goes with anything, Falmeard, so you needn’t have worried.” Her smile, though, only went so far.

  “You’ll be fine, Prescinda,” he soothed. “It’s pretty safe, and I must admit, quite enjoyable. You’ll see,” but she wasn’t convinced.

  The walk from the cabin seemed to take forever as they all picked their way between mounds of supplies and unfathomable equipment. It didn’t help there were so many unfamiliar smells, although the scent of oil made Prescinda think of Grog and his phlogran. Even the worsening stink of ammonia did begin to feel somehow more reassuring.

  What proved harder to ignore, though, was the growing noise, what had been but a dull, insistent rumble from the confines of the cabin. Now it rattled Prescinda’s ears but at least turned her mind from the spectres of her fear. The hollow uneasiness in her stomach had begun to fill with the strumming of engines, particularly the large one now beside them.

  Hemming their passage in against a stack of crates, a huge metal frame rose well above their heads - maybe twice Awlshank’s unusual height - and visibly shook. They were beside it before Prescinda noticed that its stout framework held a massive drum, and from which a fine steel hawser strained out and away towards the now much nearer balloon.

  She felt her heart sink further, deeper yet than the winch’s own low rumbling thunder, its engine belching fumes and dripping naphtha, hot and sizzling and alive. Prescinda stopped and stood, trembling by its side as all but Falmeard and she carried on ahead. She wanted to scream, to turn and run, but Falmeard’s arms enfolded her and urged her on.

  “It’s no good, Falmeard,” she tried to shout into his ear. “I can’t do it,” but he continued to press her forward towards the monstrous tick, his hand now a huge comfort in the small of her back. Then she could hear him, the muffle of fear subsiding as her mind shut out the noise.

  “You’re nearly there, Prescinda. Not far at all,” but her fear rose once more, overtook her and made her pull away. She tried to run but he caught her and kissed her, long and hard upon the lips. It stilled her, stilled her in her heart and mind and body.

  Falmeard leant away a little, drinking in her startled gaze, a lazy smile upon his face. Without a word, gently yet firmly, he turned her back towards the balloon.

  There it was again before her; no longer billowing, no longer threatening, now only a means to an end, a way to an answer, and one she realised she needed to discover for herself. She’d never done anything like this before, ever, but somehow the tingle at her lips washed the spectres away and cleared her eyes.

  The balloon had seemed large enough - seen through her strange new eyes - but once beneath it, Prescinda could only look up in wonder.

  So unearthly did its sheer size seem that she failed to see Nephril’s relief. He stood nearby, beside a wicker basket and from where he stared at her through ill-disguised impatience.

  “Dost thou think,” he softly said, “that thou might climb aboard this basket?” His hand gripped its edge, his foot on a wooden step beside. “I do hate pressing thee, mine dear, but time be of the essence.” His brows had lofted, his eyes wide and bright, a nod towards their latest carriage.

  “Is that it? We’re all going to get into that thing? Together? The three of us? Now you are joking, Nephril. It’s tiny.” Now she stared in. “And much of it’s taken up by a large reel of rope. What’s all that about?”

  “Climb aboard,” Falmeard urged, “and I’ll tell you the ins and outs ... once we’re safely up.” He offered his hand but she slapped it down and climbed onto the step herself, threw her coat in and onto the reel of rope, then hitched her frock up.

  “Eyes off,” she warned, and soon swung a leg over the creaking edge, heaving herself to a staggering stand on the basket’s soft and yielding floor. Then she saw how low that edge really was, placed a hip against it and soon went white. After Falmeard and Nephril carefully climbed aboard, keen not to upset her balance, everything seemed to happen all at once.

  Chiffenger Awlshanks began calling out commands as he waved and quickly retreated, and before ropes fell from the balloon, slipping down through spiralling motes of dust they left behind in the air.

  She heard Falmeard warn, “Hold tight”, before he bobbed down beside her and fiddled with the reel of rope. A loud hissing sound erupted, the balloon above then mournfully moaning.

  Only when she saw Nephril reach for a hanging cord and grip it tightly did she heed Falmeard’s advice. She did the same, by which time the basket had begun scraping across the flags for a yard or two before stopping, suddenly as steady as a rock.

  Prescinda’s knuckles had by now gone white, whiter than her face, her fingers tighter than her jaw, but little else happened other than the ground below slowly sinking away.

  10 A Whisper in a Soaring Silence

  When Prescinda realised what was happening, her stomach went leaden and she expected the worse. Gripping the dry and creaking edge of the basket, she steeled herself to peer over and down.

  Below, the chaotic jumble of mechanicking mess steadily dwindled to nothing more than a tangled nest. The balloon’s own, and from which it had so gracefully floated free.

  But then, what Falmeard had said magically came true.

  Provided she ignored the hawser’s frightful length - reeling out a clear connection below - the ground from which it rose became but an elaborate map. It soon no longer appeared to retreat but lay so still and unthreatening. Her body and mind seemed steeped in honey, a sublime peace, a still and timeless world born of serenity.

  For the first time she breathed deeply, felt the tension of the last few hours soak into her exhaled breath and float free, like the balloon had from its nest. In her sudden joy she turned to Falmeard but felt the basket sway against her shifting weight. Fear once more threatened to grip her heart.

  “Try not to move too much, Prescinda,” he said. “The hawser’s connected to the balloon you see, not the basket, so we’re actually swinging free.”

  She froze for a moment, looking a yard or two beyond the basket to where the hawser hung and u
p which her gaze soon drifted. Together with a leather hose that snaked from the reel by her feet, both vanished into a wooden wheel some twenty feet above, at the base of the balloon. From it, ropes fanned out, vanishing around a now well-gorged tick.

  Staring up began to make her feel giddy, so she lowered her gaze but caught sight of Mount Esnadac’s upper rise to the west, some twelve miles away. How high they’d already risen she couldn’t guess, but the mountain rose yet higher still, heaving the castle to its own lofty crown.

  To its right, outreaching Esnadac’s own blunt summit, the needle-thin Star Tower rose sharply through the air. It pointed supremely at the heavens, where she knew it pricked star holes in the sky.

  So, Prescinda thought, we’re to rise higher than the highest the castle can offer, and with that she felt a strange imposter stir within. What was that odd elation, seeping in to shape a whole new joy, one to make her body seem so light and that freed her mind?

  “The chain, of course,” she whispered to herself and turned to Nephril. “It doesn’t swing like a pendulum at all, does it, Nephril?”

  He looked blankly back at her until following her renewed gaze at the Star Tower.

  “It hangs straight down through the centre of it, and spins,” she marvelled. “Spins fast enough, like my childhood top, to keep itself and the tower from falling. Ha,” and her face lit up. “That’s it, Nephril, isn’t it? Immune to the wind, unlike this basket. So the tower never falls and its aim’s kept ever true.”

  Nephril’s smile was enough of an answer.

  Now a little tipsy with elation, her gaze wandered down the flank of Mount Esnadac, almost slipping and sliding to its long, broad shoulder. Well below and to the south, that shoulder of the mountain swept beneath the crusted maze of the Upper Reaches, all the way to the Scarra Face. A face to look out east across the Eyeswin Vale, out to the distant desert and occasionally beyond.